


Whatever Life Comes After

by StarkersBazaar



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Anal Sex, Blood Drinking, M/M, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Peter is eighteen, Starker, arguable dubcon, pls go easy on me i'm out of my wheelhouse here, prompts, really only because of the a/b/o dynamics i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-09
Updated: 2018-09-09
Packaged: 2019-07-10 08:31:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15945617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarkersBazaar/pseuds/StarkersBazaar
Summary: Based on a prompt: “I just had a thought… Werewolf!Tony is the Alpha of the biggest Pack in New York… Peter is a new Vampire/Werewolf/Hybrid, and he runs into Tony. The poor boy doesn’t understand when the Alpha grabs him and claims him as His…”





	Whatever Life Comes After

**Author's Note:**

> This is something I wasn't sure I was going to post on my ao3, because it is not at all the sort of thing I usually write (I'm not super familiar with the a/b/o trope, and not into it personally), but I got an interesting prompt from a lovely and kind follower of my tumblr, and I wanted to try to fulfill it for them. I modified what little I know about a/b/o dynamics a bit just to make it easier on myself (lol) and leaned super heavily into the vampire shit, because I live for vampire shit. I hope people enjoy it! (And I hope people who love a/b/o stories don't think it's a total letdown, lol!)

The terrifying moment of Peter’s death had come and gone, but what followed, rather than nothingness, was a new life.

He had risen from the wet, filthy asphalt in the alley, to the shocked scream of a young woman smoking in a nearby doorway. He must have looked quite the sight, soaked to the bone and paler than death himself, a shock of blood still smeared across his neck and jaw.

The fog in Peter’s brain lifted almost immediately when he caught the scent of the smoking woman. The instinctive surge throughout his body allowed no time for contemplation or confusion: he lunged toward her, aggressively seeking to sate a consuming hunger unlike any he had ever known.

With the woman dead in his arms only moments later, her blood coursing through his veins, he began to remember. He had been on the other side of this death’s embrace only hours before, pleading for his life, his own blood choking his voice as the impossibly strong creature had drawn the life from his body. Now, he had taken up sure-footed residence in whatever life came After.

One thing was clear to Peter immediately: he was still himself, despite what his body had been through, and he immediately began to panic. To the deafening rush of someone else’s blood in his ears, he fumbled through his pockets for his phone, finding it entirely waterlogged and dead. In the end, he had to fish the woman’s own phone out of her bloodstained bag. He dialed 911, laid the phone on her body, and fled.

The weeks that followed Peter’s rebirth were difficult. Every evening, he woke at the mercy of that astonishing hunger, and every evening, it was the first person to cross his path who became his meal. For a while after the first kill, he would feel almost normal again. But it was hard to predict how the night would pass from then on. There were evenings when the trail of bodies in his wake was enough to make headlining news the next day. Other nights, the first kill was enough, and the rest of his waking hours were spent in a special kind of purposeless misery and turmoil. Because of the uncontrollable and unpredictable nature of this violent and deadly drive, he had made the impossibly difficult choice to leave his home forever.

One evening shortly after Peter had been declared missing, he had walked home along a route so familiar he could have done it blindfolded, and found a spot out of sight to watch. He had waited until a fraught May had left the building to drive the streets of Queens in search of her nephew. His heart ached to see her so upset, but an upset May was preferable to a dead May. Peter had no idea how he would react if the thirst overcame him in her presence, and he wasn’t willing to take any risks with her. He knew she would be okay, eventually. That was all that mattered. He had snuck into the building, climbed the stairs to the seventh floor, grabbed just enough of his clothing and personal effects so as not to draw suspicion, and then, for the last time, left the apartment.

Peter wouldn’t allow himself to truly process the reality of the situation: he would very likely never see his aunt again. It was an enormous price, but one he had to pay. In those first long nights, he tried to keep her from his mind. Despite his best efforts, he thought of her often.

May had seen him through all of the tribulations of his eighteen years of life. She had done everything in her power to protect him from a world that seemed bound and determined to hurt him. Even when his first affliction had taken hold of him shortly after the onset of puberty, causing horrifying transformation and an overpowering urge for aggression and violence at each full moon, May had done what had to be done. As difficult a situation as it was for her to navigate, she had seen it all before – in her brother- and sister-in-law, Peter’s parents – which had provided some foreknowledge and strategies for helping Peter cope. He didn’t relish the nights spent restrained, tranquilized, and caged, but they kept both he and his aunt safe, and so they made do.

This, however, was a beast of an entirely different name. Unpredictable, unfamiliar, and therefore unsafe.  His…Other Affliction, that had been manageable. Moon phases came and went according to an unchanging schedule. It was easy for the two of them to plan around his shifts. But this was nothing like that, and Peter had no one to turn to with questions. He had never felt more afraid. He had never been more alone.

It was a nightmarish period of adjustment to his new life, to say the least. But if nothing else, Peter had reassured himself, at least he no longer had the Other Affliction to cope with.

Or so he had thought.

The first full moon that followed his death, Peter felt it creeping within him, the frighteningly familiar sensation of something beneath his skin tearing at his insides, desperately trying to break free. He thought it must be his anxiety, triggered by so many bad memories and by the sight of the gibbous moon the night before. He tried to hold it off, to convince himself it absolutely couldn’t be happening. He was, for all intents and purposes, dead. How could this still be possible?

When he awoke the next evening, covered in blood and viscera clearly left over from a different sort of killing, he very promptly emptied his guts. He hadn’t eaten anything in weeks, and whatever had happened to his body when it had died, it seemed that solids were no longer something it would tolerate.

His retching and gagging left him feeling hollow, the nausea not lasting long enough to calm his now-familiar thirst. It came on in an intense wave, barely allowing Peter time to catch his breath. He looked around himself, attempting to get his bearings. He had thankfully found a dark and enclosed space – a stairwell on a condominium construction site – to rest in before he’d returned to his human appearance. He must have slept there all through the day, miraculously undisturbed. He still didn’t know what would happen to him if he was exposed to daylight, but the instinct to stay away from it was intense, and he didn’t question it.

Peter stood, looking down at himself. He was covered in blood, his clothing splattered, shredded, and stained, like a nightmarish Pollock. Beside his feet lay what remained of his palette. His stomach twisted at the sight, and he uttered quiet apologies to the mangled body as he peered around it, searching for his backpack. He needed a change of clothing before anything else. One thing Peter didn’t need was to attract attention.

But of course, he realized, his backpack was probably halfway across the city, wherever he had shifted the night before.

Uttering a curse, Peter climbed out of the stairwell and took in his surroundings. He was still in Queens, but trying to retrace his steps when he couldn’t remember the previous night at all was not going to be easy.

Peter’s first kill of the evening was a taller man in a zip-up hoodie. He thanked him quietly as he pulled the sweater from the dying man’s body. It was a bit too large for Peter, but did the trick, covering his destroyed shirt and his bloodstained skin. He zipped it up to his neck, drew up the hood, and set out for the last place he could remember being before the full moon.

It was hours later when Peter finally found his bag, half-drenched in a puddle below an apartment building’s fire escape. Looking inside the backpack, he found all the things he’d taken from home, but they were soaked through and through. He cursed again. The little practicalities of life – for the living or the dead – were so much more difficult without a place to call home. He would need to find an all-night laundromat, preferably an empty one. He had cash for the machines, at least, taken from some of the unfortunates he’d met on his late-night walks, but before he could walk into a brightly lit public space, he had to do something about his shredded jeans.

The only option was the slightly less damp of two pairs of jeans. Peter wrung out the black denim as best he could, and quickly changed from his bloodied blue jeans to the damp, clinging black. He grimaced in discomfort.

As Peter slung his backpack over his shoulder, his sensitive hearing picked up the conversing voices of a pair of men. He froze, tuning his ear, pinpointing from where the voices emanated. They weren’t far from him, three or four blocks at most, and were moving in his direction.

Already, Peter knew this would be a night that would make headlines the following morning. He could feel the hollow, aching hunger deep within him, and knew that the first man he’d drained wouldn’t be enough to last by far.

_There are only two of them,_ Peter thought. _I can handle two. And they’ll keep me full, at least until I’ve got clean clothes._

Peter knew this area well, knew that he could circle round behind the men, ambush them without warning. He was quick on his feet, and quiet. They wouldn’t see it coming.

It was only a few moments before Peter was behind the men by a block, watching around him, waiting for a clear moment of opportunity. The two men – one about his height, maybe a bit taller, and stocky; the other, taller and skinny – steadily approached an area of darkness along the sidewalk. _Streetlight’s out,_ Peter remembered, _has been for weeks._ This was the perfect opportunity. He began to close the gap between them.

Every step Peter took, his hunger grew more pronounced. He could smell them now, an intoxicating smell unlike anything he’d yet experienced. With each inhale, he felt a profound desperation grow in the pit of his stomach. He didn’t know which one smelled so good – though he would have put money on the shorter of the two – but knew that would be the one he’d kill second. The first, he had decided in an instant of clarity, he would kill by simply breaking his neck. He didn’t want to feel pressured by time, and wanted no distractions when he tasted the other. He wanted to savour it. If he tasted half as good as he smelled…

The intensity of this hunger had Peter at its mercy. Though his rational mind told him to keep it together, one foot after the other, and never two feet off the ground at one time, a staggering impulse within him had set his limbs on fire. It took every ounce of restraint he could muster to not dive at the pair too early. His breaths came fast, uneven, and his gaze never shifted from the pair as he stalked them, shadowing their steps.

And then, suddenly, Peter’s plans were scattered to the wind.

The shorter of the two men stopped in his tracks. His friend paused a moment after.

“What is it, Mr. Stark?” came the voice of the taller man.

“You smell that?” asked a breathless, rich-timbred voice.

When the shorter man turned around, Peter – whose mind had instructed him to keep walking, act natural, circle back on them once again – froze despite himself. Even in the dark, at a distance of half a block, Peter felt paralyzed by the gaze of the dark-eyed man before him. The tall man spoke again – _Mr. Stark?_ – and Peter felt an uncomfortable rush of recollection, pulling him momentarily from his confused intoxication into a memory from years before.

 

*     *     *

 

“Whatever you do,” May told him, sitting on the edge of his bed, “keep this between you and I. No one else can know. There are dangerous people out there – people who…change, the way you do – who don’t take these precautions.”

She took his hand then, squeezing it.

“I never told you what happened to your parents,” she began, her voice softening. Peter’s heart began to pound. He had asked, time and time again, but May had always told him it wasn’t the time. That she wasn’t ready. That _he_ wasn’t ready. It had been a point of contention between them for years, so much so that at a point, Peter had just stopped asking. He had never stopped wondering, though, and now that he was at the precipice overlooking the truth, he wasn’t entirely sure if he wanted to hear it, after all.

“Your parents were like you,” May continued. “You knew that much – you knew they both changed, every month, at the full moon. But…they had friends – a huge group, a – a pack, all throughout the city, that they thought would keep them safe. Your father told me about it, about the leader of the pack, who had…who had pulled them in.”

She took a deep breath, then let it out in a heavy sigh.

“His name was Tony Stark, and he was about your father’s age, and he was just…so cocky, and confident, and he told your parents that he could take care of them. He could protect them. He said his pack were untouchable. I told them I didn’t like the sound of that, especially with you being – with you being just a little baby…”

May took a moment, breathing deeply, her eyes closed. Peter squeezed her hand, hoping to reassure her, though his stomach churned as he watched the emotions roiling in his aunt’s expression. When she opened her eyes again, they shone with tears.

“I couldn’t stop them. And I wasn’t like them, so I couldn’t…there was nothing I could say to convince them to stay with us, to keep doing things the way we had. The way you and I do now. This man, Tony Stark, he had them believing that it went against their nature to be caged, and that they should be able to run free, and they would always have each other’s backs. That they would protect each other. That no one would get hurt.”

May was angry now, her voice trembling as she spoke. Her grip on Peter’s hand had tightened so much that her knuckles were white.

“I guess none of them gave much thought to the people who hunt people like them. That make a _sport_ of it.” She spat the word with more derision than Peter had ever heard leave her lips.

“And…and that’s what happened. These people, this pack, who were supposed to keep them safe…they just led them into danger. They encouraged them to be exposed, and to be vulnerable, in a world that doesn’t understand them and doesn’t want them to be a part of it. And because of their carelessness, you – ”

She began to cry now, fully, tears tracing glistening lines down her cheeks.

“You lost your mom and dad.”

Peter wrapped May in a tight hug, his own eyes burning. He could feel May’s tears soaking into his t-shirt.

A long moment later, when the silence of Peter’s room had begun to ring in his ears, May pulled back from their embrace. She turned to face Peter more directly, taking his shoulders in her hands.

“Please, Peter. Whatever you do, I need you to stay away from them. From _anyone_ with this…this condition. There are a lot of them, and I don’t know if they’ll come to you, or if you’ll feel that you want to go to them…”

“I won’t, Aunt May,” Peter tried to assure her. “I won’t. I don’t need them. I don’t – I don’t want to be like this.”

May nodded, her eyes full of empathy. She touched Peter’s cheek, giving him a tight-lipped smile.

“I’m so sorry, Peter. You shouldn’t have to feel that way about any part of yourself…but this world isn’t safe for that part of you.”

Peter nodded in return, whispering a soft “I know.”

May took another moment, looking down at the dingy carpet covering Peter’s bedroom floor. Peter watched her with trepidation, overwhelmed by this new knowledge, only able to process his immediate concerns for his aunt.

“May…are you okay?”

“They’ll know you by smell,” May continued abruptly, “and they’ll want you to join them, but you have to promise me that you’ll stay away from them. That you’ll stay away from Tony Stark.”

Peter’s brows drew together and he nodded, his expression surely communicating his clear and obvious understanding of the request his aunt made.

“No, no, sweetie, I need you to promise me – I need you to say it.”

Her eyes were wide, pleading. Peter’s stomach churned.

“I promise,” he said quietly. “I promise I’ll stay away.”

May’s relief was visible, and immediate. She drew Peter into her arms once again, and he closed his eyes, clinging to her. To the only mother he’d ever known.

“I promise.”

 

*     *     *

 

Peter’s plan dissipated like a puff of smoke as he realized who he was looking at, his body surging with adrenaline. Several split-second thoughts ran through his head as his survival instinct took the wheel: he could have handled two with the element of surprise, but didn’t stand a chance now that he’d been seen. He had to leave. He shouldn’t run, or they would surely chase him. He had to act natural and hope they hadn’t noticed his reaction. Stuffing his hands in his pockets, he took a few casual steps forward before turning to cross the street. An approaching car gave him an excuse to run a few feet without appearing to be fleeing. Once on the other side of the street, he picked up his pace, his eyes fixed on a tight laneway between two buildings. He could make it there in ten or fifteen seconds, and then he could make a run for it.

A few feet from the laneway, Peter chanced a quick, subtle glance over his right shoulder. With a start, he saw the two men rapidly closing on him, heading unmistakably in his direction. Peter bolted without a second thought, dashing into the laneway.

Thudding, splashing footsteps drew closer, faster than he could escape them. With each passing second, they gained. Peter pushed himself as hard as he could, his muscles screaming from the effort, but every molecule in his body told him he had to keep going.  He had to be faster. He had to escape them.

The tall gate at the end of the laneway was blocked by an enormous garbage bin. Peter would have to get on top of the bin and vault over the gate if he stood any chance of throwing off his pursuers. His mind worked at breakneck speed as his feet pounded the pavement, his eyes scanning the area surrounding the bin, looking for anything that he could vault off of to help him onto the dumpster. He could see nothing. There was no way around it: he had to jump from ground level, and hope for the best. He pulled off his backpack as he ran, hurling it over the gate, and prepared to spring.

He took a flying leap from only a few feet away, his midsection slamming painfully into the edge of the container. With scrabbling hands he struggled to grip something, anything, to give him leverage to pull himself up. But the dumpster’s lid was wet with droplets of rain, and his fingers grasped at nothing but slick metal. He dug in with his elbows, but only felt himself slipping. With a heaving grunt of effort, he swung a leg up, catching his knee over the corner of the lid, and for a moment thought he might be able to do it. But the four hands that grabbed at his legs and waist pulled him down with ease, and suddenly, Peter was just a desperate and terrified animal, backed into a corner.

“This is the one?” the taller man asked, his voice jolting as Peter thrashed against his bear-hug hold. He was stronger than he looked, and Peter struggled desperately, to no avail. “Damnit – calm down!”

Peter cried out in pain as the man took hold of his wrist, twisting his arm behind him and pressing it hard into his back. With his arm in this position, each movement sent a jolt of pain through him. The vise grip of the man at his back showed no signs of letting up, either. After a moment, very unwillingly, Peter became still, save for the rapid rise and fall of his chest. Terrified, he took in the sight of the man he now knew to be Tony Stark. The one his aunt had warned him about, above any other. His dark eyes, black in the evening light, took him in with an expression of appraisal. A broad mouth, framed by an impeccably groomed beard, curled up at the corners just slightly.

“Yeah,” came the same drawling voice he’d heard on the sidewalk only moments earlier. “It is.”

As the man stepped closer to Peter, looking him dead in the eye, he was confronted again by the scent that had enraptured him in the street. It seemed to wash over him. Though his hunger had taken a back seat to his fear, an entirely new sensation overwhelmed him. He felt dizzy from the intensity of it, felt his body’s signals clashing and converging within him. He was terrified, but meeting the gaze of the man before him, their faces only inches apart, some part of him understood that he wasn’t being hunted as prey. The realization made no sense – he had just been the target of a desperate foot race, and now found himself inescapably restrained. But the overpowering rush he felt as he drank in the smell of the other man, as he held his unblinking gaze, set all his senses off-kilter.

“Wh – what do you want?” he managed to ask, his voice strangled.

“He’s different,” Stark observed, not breaking Peter’s gaze. “Can you smell it?”

“Uh huh,” the man at Peter’s back answered. “Wonder if one of the Others got to him.”

Stark let out a low, resonant hum, reaching out to cup Peter’s cheek in his hand. Peter felt paralyzed as a thumb grazed his lips. He made a surprised sound when the digit hooked the corner of his lip and pulled it up.

“Mm – would ya look at that,” the older man mused, examining Peter’s teeth, surely focusing on what was once a canine tooth and was now a dangerously sharp fang. He let out an exhale as he thumbed the tooth, letting it break his skin. The tiniest spot of blood rose from the puncture. Peter let out a soft, desperate sound as the smell of the blood flooded his senses. The man behind him huffed a laugh. 

Stark drew his hand away from the younger man’s face, but not before he had smeared the spot of blood on Peter’s lower lip. In an instant, Peter had drawn his lip in, laving heavily with his tongue. If he had been less afraid, he might have felt embarrassed by how desperately he cleaned his lip of every bit of the stain. His head swam, and a heat began to spread throughout his body.

“What’s your name?” Stark asked, his own tongue peeking out to wet his lips.

His rational mind told him to spit, to bite, to fight and thrash until he could escape these men. But every time Stark spoke, Peter felt as though he’d been dosed. He could still taste the man’s blood, unlike any he’d tasted before. He wanted more.

“Peter,” he breathed.

“Peter.”

Stark nodded to the man at Peter’s back, and suddenly, his arm was free. He let it down with a wince, cautious, looking over his shoulder at the other man.

“Keep an eye out,” Stark instructed, and the man uttered an affirmative, turning and walking away from them, in the direction of the street. Peter watched him go, acutely aware of Stark’s fixed gaze.

_This is it, Peter_ , he thought, his body tense like a tightly coiled spring _._ Though a part of Peter fought inexplicably _against_ his urge to run, he tried to force the clouds from his head. His survival instinct clawed urgently toward the forefront of his mind, pleading with Peter to snap out of it. _This is your opportunity. If you’re going to run, it has to be now. Go. Go!_

The moment there was enough space between Peter and the tall man, he sprang into motion, shoving past him with as much strength as he could muster. He heard the clatter of the man falling into a stack of pallets, and then only the pounding of his own feet against the pavement.

For a fleeting instant, Peter thought he might actually manage to escape. In the next, he felt the wind knocked from his lungs. He slammed into the pavement, the surprising weight of Tony Stark at his back. Peter gasped desperate, ragged breaths, struggling frantically beneath the other man.

“Now, that wasn’t very nice,” Stark said, voice juddering as he struggled to still Peter’s bucking.

“You need a hand?” came the tall man’s voice.

“No! _Keep an eye out!_ ”

Peter let out a shout, fighting and scrabbling beneath Stark, who had fully straddled him. The man had him pinned, face down, both wrists pressed firm against the asphalt.

“Kid – hey – _stop it_ – listen, if I wanted you dead, you’d be dead already.”

Stark’s voice was remarkably unaffected by the exertion of their grappling. Peter’s, on the other hand, betrayed every bit of fatigue and desperation he felt.

“Then what the _fuck_ do you want?” he spat, squeezing his eyes shut. He tried in vain to shake off the grey haze in his head. It spread throughout him like fingers gripping his senses, pulling him in too many directions, none of which he understood. Every second he spent breathing in the man at his back brought him further from whatever part of his instincts still made sense.

Stark shifted his position, leaning down over Peter. The younger man felt Stark’s breath against his ear, his mouth so close he could feel the radiating heat of his lips in the space between their skin. He felt his entire body prickle, not unpleasantly.

“I’ve been waiting for you for a very long time,” Stark hummed. Peter grunted, still vainly struggling against the weight of the other man. But Peter could feel the dulling of his attempts at resistance. His hunger, along with these strange new sensations, left him feeling weak. Needy. The memory of the taste of Stark’s blood was still fresh in his mind, the sharp copper lingering in his mouth.

“I know you can smell me, too,” Stark continued, letting out a sigh at the side of Peter’s face. “I know you know what this is.”

Peter’s mind struggled to piece everything together – _what the hell was Stark talking about?_ – but he couldn’t bring the words to his lips. It was clear _something_ was happening, something Peter had never experienced in life or after it. He wanted to throw the man off him as much as he wanted to stay wrapped in this heady daze as long as he could. Each moment that passed encouraged Peter toward the latter.

Without warning, the man began to grind his hips slowly and firmly against Peter’s ass. With a surprised inhale, he felt himself beginning to harden, for the first time since he’d awoken to this new life. He hadn’t been sure it was even _possible_ anymore. The rush spread throughout him with a noticeable shudder. He heard a soft, exhaled laugh at the back of his neck.

“Mm – there you go,” Stark breathed. “Let it happen.”

“Nngh – stay away from me,” Peter demanded, breathless. His eyes closed, and his jaw hung slack. “Stay – stay away…”

Despite his words, Peter pressed back against Tony, his hands curling into tight fists. Stark let out a soft grunt, rolling his hips again. He released Peter’s right wrist, and inexplicably, the freed hand stayed exactly where Stark had left it. The older man gathered Peter’s hood in his hand and gave it a yank, pulling it away from his neck.

“ _Stay away…_ Is that really what you want?”

Peter yelped as Stark bit down on his neck where it met his shoulder. The bite was hot, wet, and too much for Peter to take. He whimpered softly, his entire body tensed and aching, longing for something he’d never had, but knew now he needed, even more than he needed to feed. He felt the weakening grip of his resolve finally release. Felt himself falling into whatever was happening to him, as though through the vast void of a long-forgotten dream.

Answering Stark’s question, he shook his head, another desperate sound catching in his throat. The weight of the older man disappeared from his back. He felt strong hands yank the seat of jeans down to just below his trunk, felt the chill of the night air against his bare skin. Felt his hips hoisted off the ground, heard the clinking of Stark’s belt as he hurried to undo it.

“Please,” Peter whined, the ache in his body becoming unbearable. He arched his back like a cat, his fingers gripping desperately at the unyielding asphalt.

He heard the older man spit, felt a warm wetness smeared hurriedly against his hole. Only a second later, he felt the pressure of the other man’s cock, pushing against his body’s initial resistance. Peter let out a sound, somewhere between surprise and pain, but pushed back against the other man still.

The first few moments had Peter convinced he would never feel relief. Stark eased into him much too slowly for the need that had set Peter’s body alight. The young man’s breaths came fast, heavy, and vocal. His face twisted into a grimace.

The man began to thrust his hips, slow only for the first few motions, until Peter’s body had opened up to him. Once he had sunken fully in, he began to fuck Peter with a clear, blistering need that matched the younger man’s. Peter could feel the iron grip of Stark’s hands on his hips, could hear the heavy breaths leaving the man’s lips. He was sure he could hear the surging of the man’s pulse. His fingertips scraped painfully at the asphalt; he could feel the skin of his palms breaking. It hurt, all of it, but the last thing he wanted was for it to stop.

Peter couldn’t help the vocal moans leaving his lips, loudly punctuated with each of the other man’s pounding thrusts. It hadn’t occurred to his overstimulated mind to be concerned about the noise, until it was brought to his attention by a surprisingly strong and agile Stark. Like a ragdoll, Peter felt his upper body hauled up and back against Stark’s chest. The man’s left arm wrapped tightly around his waist, and the right reached upward, wrapping a large hand around the lower half of Peter’s face.

“Shhh…”

Peter’s head rolled back as Stark fucked him just like this, their bodies pressed together, friction creating a sticky heat between them. His moans were muffled against the hand pressed to his face, but perhaps Stark had decided it wasn’t enough. Whatever the reasoning for what he did next, Peter didn’t care, for moments later, he was sure he had ascended.

His intention unmistakable, Stark moved his hand, pressing the fleshy base of his thumb between Peter’s lips. He pushed until the younger man had no choice but to open his teeth, and then, like an offering, he pressed his flesh into his mouth. Peter needed no further invitation.

He eagerly bit down on the side of Stark’s hand, around his thumb, breaking the skin and letting out a rapturous moan as the taste of the man’s blood flooded his mouth. Stark made a sound that sent a thrill through Peter’s body, and the younger man eagerly sucked at the wound he’d made, his mouth silenced but for the lewd sounds of his lips against Stark’s skin. He hardly noticed the intensification of the other man’s movements, not with the sweet taste of him sparking every nerve in Peter’s body, filling each corner of his mind with only _him, him, him_.

When Stark’s free hand slid down Peter’s front to palm his cock, it sent Peter over in an instant. He let Stark’s punctured and bloody hand drop out of his mouth as he panted through his orgasm, all his muscles tensing and every sensation amplified by his own release. It was only seconds later that he felt Stark come, grunting against Peter’s shoulder, breaths rapid and hot through the dead man’s hoodie.

Peter had barely come down himself when he felt Stark shift slowly behind him. He could feel the man’s warm wetness as he pulled out. The iron grip about his body loosened and released, and with aching arms, Peter tugged up his jeans. He bent forward, reaching out with scraped palms to prop himself on all fours. Slowly, he began to catch his breath. His arms trembled beneath him.

The young man had never been drunk – not _really_ – but imagined this might be how it felt. His body felt heavy, his mind pleasantly clouded, his worries somewhere far from the present moment. He couldn’t process what had just happened, but knew that whatever it was, it somehow felt _right_. Like it had been meant to happen. Like he had been _waiting_ for it to happen, without ever realizing as much. Already, he longed for the feeling of those arms wrapped tightly around him. Rationally it made no sense, though it felt like a truth he’d always known.

“I caught your scent last night,” Stark said, breaking the silence. His belt buckle chinked as he readjusted himself. “Been following it all day.”

Peter pushed himself up slowly, wincing at the pain in so many parts of his body. He wasn’t sure if he could still bruise, but was sure he would find out soon.

Once on his feet, Peter stumbled, throwing out an arm to catch himself. Stark caught it by the elbow.

“Easy – easy.”

Peter turned to face him then, grateful for the strong hand stabilizing him. He looked up at the older man, wondering how he hadn’t noticed before just how handsome he was. The lines on his face called attention to all of his most striking features. Despite what they’d just done, Stark appeared as put together as he had when Peter had first caught sight of him. The only giveaway was the barely-noticeable wetness at the knees of his trousers, and the bloody punctures in his right hand.

They took each other in for a moment, silently. When Stark’s lips curled into a smile, crinkling the skin around his eyes, Peter had to look away. Something stirred in his stomach every time he made eye contact with the man. It was entirely too much. He looked down, immediately frowning at the state of himself, by comparison. The knees of his jeans were torn, his shoes soaking wet. The stolen hoodie was soaked through, too.

“Why haven’t I come across you before now?”

Peter looked back up, once again feeling the intense pull in the pit of his stomach.

“I don’t know…I – I don’t usually – I’m usually locked up. And…”

“And drugged.”

Peter’s eyebrows drew together. _How did he know that?_

“For every cycle so far?”

Peter nodded.

“Except…except the first one.”

“Before they knew for sure.”

“Yeah.”

Stark hummed thoughtfully. He looked Peter up and down, causing a flurry of nerves in the younger man. He felt frozen in place as Stark reached for the zipper of the stolen hoodie, pulling it down. He pushed the sweater away from Peter’s chest, revealing the shredded shirt and the mess of blood beneath.

“Your first kill?”

Peter nodded, frowning. “First one like this.”

He couldn’t understand why he felt so prepared to be honest with this stranger, this man who had chased him down, set his lackey on him, tackled him in an alley. Peter’s stomach sank as he remembered what else this man was to him, the events of the night aside. May’s words came back to him, as did the promise he’d made her. He had tried to stay away, and he had failed. And even now, with no one restraining him or blocking his path, he couldn’t bring himself to leave. The realization left him feeling nauseated.

“Any other firsts, tonight?” Stark asked pointedly. Peter knew what he was referring to. He lowered his gaze, embarrassed, uncomfortably exposed. He nodded.

“You did really well.”

The affection in Stark’s voice took Peter aback. He longed for more of it as much as it confused and unnerved him. His self-consciousness getting the better of all the feelings coursing throughout him, Peter zipped up the wet hoodie once again, stuffing his hands into the pockets. The conflict racking his insides set his mind changing and fighting at each thought that crossed it. He had so many questions, and knew the man before him might be the only one who could answer them. There was so much that needed to be said, and yet not a single word found its way to Peter’s lips.

“We should get you cleaned up,” Stark said, finally breaking the silence. He tilted Peter’s chin up with the knuckle of his index finger. “You must be cold. Or – are you always – ”

“’m fine.”

“You don’t wanna draw attention to yourself, kid. Not being as…special, as you are.”

“Really, ’m _fine –_ ”

“Where do you live?”

Peter looked down again, his fingers curling around the insides of the sweater’s pockets. May came again to mind, and he took a deep breath.

“I, uh…I don’t really – I just…find places to sleep.”

Stark’s silence was deafening. He turned, looking down the alley, toward the gate Peter had hurled his backpack over.

“That bag. Is that all you’ve got?”

Peter nodded.

“Uh-uh. Not anymore. Hey!”

He whistled, and suddenly, Peter remembered Stark’s friend. A wave of embarrassment crashed over him as he remembered the unrestrained noises he’d made only moments before, before Stark had found a way to dull them. Surely, those sounds had been well within the other man’s earshot.

The tall man reappeared from the far end of the laneway, where he’d been stationed just out of sight.

“Yeah?”

“The kid’s bag,” Stark said simply. He nodded toward the opposite end of the laneway, and with a quick affirmative, the tall man was off to retrieve Peter’s things. The ease with which he hopped the bin added to Peter’s embarrassment. “Meet us at the car,” he added, as the man disappeared from sight, over the gate. Stark turned his attention back to Peter.

“Where’d you live before?”

Peter turned his attention back to Stark, once again taken aback by the man’s beautiful features. He stammered softly before responding.

“Queens. Just – just a couple blocks over.”

“You spend a lot of time in the city?”

“Not since I graduated…”

“Mm. You’re gonna. I’ve got a nice little place in Midtown that’s collecting dust. A shame, really. So it’ll be yours now. And we’ll need to get you some new clothes – ”

Peter shook his head, his expression twisted with frustration and confusion.

“Why would you do any of that? Who – who am I? You don’t know me. I’m just some kid.”

It was Stark’s turn to look confused. He regarded Peter with an expression the younger man couldn’t fully read. For the first time since they’d encountered each other, Stark’s face took on a softness.

“Do you know anything about what you are?” he gently asked.

“Yeah. Of course I do.” Peter frowned, feeling defensive, though in the immediate silence following his words, he felt his confidence in them waver. What _did_ he know, really? Only what May had told him, and that was very little. All evening, he’d felt things he had no way to explain. He had rampaged the previous night and had no memory at all of what he’d done, while Stark seemed to have full recollection of seeking Peter out while in his other form. Truthfully, there was a lot Peter didn’t know.

“They kept it from you, didn’t they? Everything but what you couldn’t avoid knowing.”

Peter thought of May once again, and of how she had tried to protect Peter from so much surrounding his condition. He fought the urge to correct Stark, to correct his _They_ to _She_ , but he thought better of it. Shrugging, he answered with an _I don’t know. I guess._

Stark regarded Peter with a sadness in his eyes. He reached out with his wounded hand to cup the younger man’s jaw. The smell of his blood so close rekindled the drunken feeling within Peter. He closed his eyes, his brows knitting together.

“They were afraid,” Stark began. “Afraid, and ashamed, like so many of them are. They don’t believe there’s another way for us to live. One without fear, and without shame, and without guilt.”

The words were a painful reminder of May’s. Peter wondered if this was how Stark had spoken to his parents, convincing them to leave their comfortable and safe lives behind, for one of greater freedom – and greater risk. Despite the churning feelings within him, Peter tilted his face into the other man’s hand. His touch, his smell, was the only thing keeping Peter from coming apart at the seams. His eyes stung as tears welled behind his eyelids.

“What’s happening to me?” he asked, breathless. He sucked in a shuddering breath, opening his eyes to look at Stark pleadingly. “Why do I f-feel like this?”

Stark drew him gently into his arms, shushing softly, and Peter melted into his grip. He clung to this man, this virtual stranger, as though he were the only thing holding him down to the earth.

“There’s a lot for you to learn,” Stark murmured. He threaded his fingers through Peter’s hair. “But we shouldn’t stay here. The car’s about ten blocks away – can you make it? Do you need to…?”

Peter shook his head, unsure of how what had transpired between them had hit pause on his aggressive thirst. Whatever had happened, he felt, for the time being, sated.

“Okay. Good. You’ll have to forgive me, I don’t know very much about…that. You’ll have to teach me.”

“I don’t know much, either,” Peter admitted, his voice muffled against the other man’s lapel.

Stark clicked his tongue, stroking Peter’s back. The touch felt warm and welcoming. Though he stood, aching, soaked to the bone, in Stark’s arms he felt as though he were surrounded by an inviting and encompassing warmth.

“You poor thing…you’ve been so alone.”

Stark pulled back slightly, looking down at the younger man. Though Peter still had so many questions and hadn’t scratched the surface of what it meant to be in the presence of this man, the man who by his aunt’s accounting was the reason he’d been orphaned, Peter knew his words were the truth. He knew that, no matter what else arose between them, he needed this man to be his guide into whatever life lay ahead of him. More simply, he _needed him._

“You’re not alone anymore,” Stark continued, reaching to push a damp curl away from Peter’s face. “You’re mine, and I’m yours.”

And Peter once again sank into Stark’s arms.

**Author's Note:**

> starkersbazaar.tumblr.com <3


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